The Violet Hour by Richard Montanari Read Free Book Online

that used to magically find half-dollars in his ears, the same hands that used to go under the hood on those numbingly cold Cleveland winter mornings, fumble around with a few wires, and miraculously start the ocean blue Buick LeSabre, the only car that Louie Stella had ever purchased new. Now his hands were idle, useless.
    ‘Look at this, Grampa.’ Nicky placed a copy of the Free Times on his grandfather’s lap, an issue that was already ten years old. He had shown his grandfather the article a number of times, and he had had a lot of things published since, but neither of those points mattered. What mattered was that his byline was set in twenty-four-point type.
    After a few moments, Louie’s eyes drifted down to the page, and recognition settled over him like a sunset. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to the page, animated by the notion of seeing his own last name unexpectedly. ‘Look, Nicky.’
    Bingo. ‘Yeah, Grampa. That’s me. I wrote that.’
    His grandfather smiled broadly. ‘You?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    He held the magazine up to Hank Piunno’s face. ‘My grandson,’ he said.
    ‘I know, Louie. I know,’ Hank said, not looking up from his paper. ‘You showed me last time. You show me every time.’
    Undaunted by the chilly response, Louie Stella looked back at the magazine, marveling at it again for the very first time. Nicky smiled, opened the bag of candy, and put the label into his back pocket.
    ‘I hate to bring this up, of course. And we usually handle matters like this through the mail. But it’s already over three thousand dollars. I’m afraid his pharmaceutical costs keep going up,’ said Jimmy Corelli. Jimmy – in his early fifties, rotund and prissy – had cornered Nicky in the lobby and asked him to step into the office. Nicky knew this meeting was coming – his grandfather’s MediCare only went so far, and he had long ago exhausted his small pension – he was just hoping it wouldn’t come for a few more weeks. ‘I’m afraid that if it’s not paid, and paid soon, we’ll have to move your grandfather to Villa Paese on 185th Street. It’s not so bad, really.’
    But it was. The two months that his grandfather was there, before a room was available at Villa Corelli, Louie Stella had cried every day. And while that was not at all unusual for Italian men, who, as they got older, cried at the drop of a hat, Nicky knew it was because Villa Paese was one step away from a welfare hotel. Forget the fact that, as Jimmy Corelli was giving him this speech, Nicky could see the back parking lot through the window, a lot that was dotted with late-model luxury cars bearing vanity plates like bcorelli, jcorelli, mcorelli. Business was business.
    ‘Let me talk to my family, okay?’ Nicky said, knowing that his father was tapped out, and that his uncle Chuck in San Diego had recently learned that he had lung cancer, and therefore would not be contributing any longer. ‘Can you give me a week?’
    Jimmy looked at his clipboard, as if the answer might be there. He looked back up. ‘One week, Mr Stella. And then I’m afraid my hands will be tied.’
    Nicky got into his car, started it, flipped on the heater, waited. He tried to push the image of his grandfather warehoused at that scuzzy place on 185th Street out of his mind. The Corellis owned four homes, and of them, Villa Corelli was the best. It was where they put their own aging relatives.
    But where was he going to get three grand? He was already into the gypsy for four.
    When the car was as warm as it was going to get, Nicky pulled out onto East 152nd Street, deciding to drive through the Euclid Creek end of the park, hoping there was still some fall color left in the trees, hoping there was still enough light to see them.
    As he turned in to the park, he thought about the fact that John Angelino – Johnny Angel, his cousin Joseph used to call him – was only a few years older than he. A young man, really, and his final autumn had already come and